Writers are voracious readers. Once I unlocked the mystery of the alphabet that led to words, a multitude of words connecting me to the world, there was no stopping me. Everything was fair game, from Louisa May Alcott to my older cousin's True Romance Magazines, from Lewis Carroll to the backs of cereal boxes. All of this fed me, but it took certain books to make me grow. I don't want to work without a sense of drama, without passion, or without both eyes open to the world around me.

Contempt mates well with pity.

The music in his laughter had a way of rounding off the missing notes in her soul.

Old as he was, he still missed his daddy sometimes.

The last time you're doing something - knowing you're doing it for the last - makes it even more alive than the first.

Why do I write? The truth, the unvarnished truth, is that I haven't a clue.

A myth is more powerful - and more lasting - than reality.